There's a line in John Clare's poem All nature has a feeling that offers the thought that "woods, fields and brooks in silence speak happiness beyond the reach of books." Clare, who was known as "The Peasant Poet", was dogged throughout his life with what would nowadays be described as mental health problems which saw him more than once make an attempt on his own life and, on several occasions, led to him being institutionalised, so it's a comforting thought that amid the tumult of all that assaulted and afflicted his consciousness there were moments when the natural world brought him a peace that transcended both the beauty of the written word and the anguish of his mind. Like Clare, I love words, but like him I'm aware that they are never an adequate vehicle to capture what they endeavour to express. The thing observed is always bigger than the thing described.
What for Clare was "woods, field and brooks" is for me "woods, fields and ponds" and today I made my final pilgrimage of this year to the pond surrounded by woods and fields that is the location for my Spring and Summer tench fishing. This, at the tail of Summer and on the cusp of Autumn, was to be my last foray in pursuit of tench until that point next year when, as the world spins on its axis, Spring will inevitably once again succeed Winter and my tench rods will once again be set free from their resting place in the garage. My fishing is nothing if not seasonal.
Although this is the ninth time I've visited the pond since joining the syndicate in May it was the first time I've fished it in an evening and so I was curious to discover how it would respond and when and if the fish would feed. After certainly the hottest and possibly one of the dryest summers on record, a ridge of low pressure had blown in, and gentle spots of rain added to the novelty of my first evening excursion as I made my first speculative cast.
Fortunately, the shower was short-lived and soon gave way to bright skies and late afternoon sun. Almost an hour had passed when the bite alarm emitted a constant high pitched tone. The resulting strike met brief resistance but failed to tear off in the manner typical of the of the lake's tench (whose initial run would not disgrace an angry carp), leading me to conclude that a tench had been momentarily attached before becoming cunningly unattached. However, seconds later it became clear that the fish was still connected to the line as it made a couple of half-hearted runs in protest at the ignomony of being hooked. As I drew the fish towards me a flash of gold beneath the water's surface told me that I was playing a large crucian, and a few seconds later I was gazing at the buttery flanks of what I instantly knew was my new personal best crucian.
The scales indicated a weight of 2lb 3oz, easily eclipsing my previous best, a 1lb 9oz Marsh Farm warrior. The pond's crucians are rare visitors to the bank, my fish being only the sixth to see an angler's net this year, but those that do get caught all tend to be of a good size. The weather continued to defy the forecast, but the fish seemed to be apathetic in mood. There were few exuberant or fearful splashes from small fish and, save for a brief ten minute spell, no bubbling or fizzing to denote that the tench were active. The same could not be said for the lake's duck population who were in sociable mood, a large flotilla making frequent visits to the area I was fishing, although they caused me no trouble.
I packed up three hours after my first cast, with no further fish added to the tally. The syndicate lake, which has a reputation for being challenging has been generous to me in my first summer fishing it, and the crucian was a welcome last gift from it. The tench have fallen regularly to my baits and this evening's "crock of gold" was the proverbial icing on the cake. Before leaving I allowed myself an extra glance at the lake, resplendant in its late summer glory. The peasant poet was right- some things are so lovely they defy description.
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